


Breaks Never Caught Part III

by weavetatter



Series: Breaks Never Caught [3]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Medical Inaccuracies, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:24:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8160460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weavetatter/pseuds/weavetatter





	

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, only play in the universe. WWE owns all.

Also, I don't write the real people. If I'm writing about Roman, it's about Roman, not Joe Anoa'i.

 

 

 

Dean didn't slam the door, but it was a near thing. _Very_ near. Rollins must have been temporarily insane to have come here.

A quiet knock had him spinning and yanking the door open so fast that he startled the doctor on the other side.

Running a hand through his unruly hair, Dean gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry, doc. Seth Rollins was just here, got me a little riled up. That the antibiotics?"

"Yes...one pill every six hours for ten days. Now you've got everything, and you can take Roman home. Make sure he stays in bed as much as possible."

Dean nodded. "Believe me, I understand how important it is. I'll take care of it. You want Roman to see his regular doc at home too?"

"Yes, and I'll call periodically to check on him as well. Safe trip, Dean."

"Thanks again, doc."

Dean closed the door and sighed. Roman had been through so much this year: a divorce, losing the title three times, a suspension, two surgeries, and now this. It really wasn't fair; his brother just couldn't catch a break.

After the divorce, needing to get away from everyone, Roman had moved to Colorado, a place picked at random because it was so different from his home state of Florida, but not so cold in winter that he couldn't stand it. Dean doubted that anyone outside of the family but him had any idea of either the divorce or the move, and he was positive that Roman didn't _want_ anyone to know. What the WWE higher-ups knew, Rollins knew, and that probably had as much to do with the move as anything else.

Dean had given a heads-up to the Usos, but they were already in Buffalo. They were worried about their cousin, but too far away to help. Not a big deal, Dean could do the driving, it would just take longer to drive across country. Maybe they could fly out. He made a note to ask Roman later. For today, though, they were staying put. Dean wanted his brother to do nothing but rest today, and shore up his strength so they could deal with it all tomorrow.

He turned on the television, finding a Steelers game on, and ordered room service for both of them, then settled in with his phone to look up information about pneumonia.

Roman was still sleeping when their food arrived, so Dean put it aside for later and kept reading, eyes flicking up to the tv every so often. He'd turned the volume down to avoid waking Roman, and so he could hear his brother if he needed him.

From everything he read, it was a good possibility that Roman would get worse before he got better. Well, that was good to know in advance.

Roman woke up about an hour later and came to join Dean in the living room of the suite, coughing deep in his chest, and Dean winced at the sound. "You sound like shit, Rome."

"Yeah, thanks. Feel like it, too." Roman collapsed on the sofa.

"I ordered food," Dean offered. Immediately, Roman shook his head, paling at even the thought of food. "I'll pass, at least for now."

One of the articles Dean had read mentioned that nausea was a symptom of pneumonia. "Feel like you're gonna throw up?"

"Not in the next two seconds, no, but if I eat, yeah, probably."

Dean decided to let it go for now, and instead wondered if he should tell his older brother about Rollins' appearance. That it would piss Roman off was a given, but he wasn't in the habit of lying, especially to Roman, who had an uncanny knack for sensing such things, so he hedged. "Listen, Rome, I've gotta tell you something, but it's gonna make you angry, so I don't know if I should wait till you're feeling better..."

Roman eyed him narrowly, and shook his head. "If it has anything to do with work, or anyone _from_ work, then wait. I'm not in the mood to hear it."

Dean nodded, relieved to be off that particular hook. "Okay, so how are we getting to Colorado?"

" 'We'?" Roman asked. "You're coming with?"

"Yeah, Amann pulled me off the roster too, so I could get you home and keep an eye on you."

Coughing again, Roman shook his head. "Just charter a plane. We can afford it, driving would take too long, and we'd be swamped with fans on a commercial flight. I'm not feeling up to that right now."

"Charter plane it is, then."

 

*RR*RR*RR*RR*RR*

 

This new home still felt unfamiliar to Roman. He'd bought it right after his divorce, but he'd only rarely been here since, as he spent so much time on the road. He hadn't even finished unpacking...not that there was much to unpack.

The property was really too big for one person, being several acres of land surrounding a large house, but it was private, and Roman had hopes that he would one day have a family living in it. For now, though, it was a port in a storm. No one but his family and Dean knew he lived here, which was the point of the place.

He dropped his luggage inside the closet of the master bedroom and kicked the door closed, too tired to deal with it right now. Dean was in the bedroom across the hall, a room that he'd used more than once. Whenever they played Colorado Springs, his little brother stayed here. It took the edge off the emptiness of the house, something he still hadn't come to terms with. He came from a large family, and even when it was just his immediate family, the house had never been quiet, not like this. Sure, the silence was great when he was sleeping, but the rest of the time it felt like a mausoleum. Even with his ex-wife, their house had never been this silent, and it had been only the two of them.

He wanted a family. It didn't have to be large, but he wanted kids running around the house and a wife to come home to.

It hadn't been that way with his ex. Things had been rocky for years with her, and he had hoped that marriage would miraculously fix everything. Unsurprisingly, it hadn't. And it wasn't entirely her fault; he could admit that now. Yes, she had been bitchy and grasping, especially near the end, but he hadn't helped matters, on the road for three hundred days of the year. And on those occasions when he _had_ been home with her, he had either been recuperating from an injury or surgery, or he'd been exhausted, too tired to even consider going out to dinner or dancing or a movie or whatever it was she had wanted to do. Or both. He'd wanted to rest, and spent most of his time sleeping, making up for the rest he didn't get on the road. If he was awake, he had been irritable because he was tired. Small wonder marriage hadn't fixed anything. And he couldn't see, short of quitting the WWE, that the situation on his part was going to change. Any woman who took him on was going to have to have the patience of a saint and be immune to his temper. So here he was with this empty house, wishing things were different.

Right now, though, he really couldn't say he minded the emptiness and the silence. He was more exhausted than he usually was coming home, and he felt like shit. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat, his throat was raw from coughing, his chest felt tight, and even breathing hurt. On top of all that were the usual aches and pains that went along with his job. Crawling into bed for two weeks was looking better and better.

He stripped off his shirt, coughing, as Dean tapped on the door. Funny thing, as manic as his little brother was at any other time, when Roman was sick, Dean was a soothing influence. Go figure.

"Hey, big man," Dean greeted him. "How're you feelin'?"

"Like shit," Roman responded succinctly, tossing his shirt into the hamper in the corner. "Be warned. I'm in a shitty mood."

Dean nodded, unsurprised and unfazed. "I brought your meds up. Time to take them again."

"Oh, goody," Roman muttered sardonically. "I can't think of anything more fun."

Dean walked over to the nightstand, hands full of bottles and a glass of water that he placed beside the lamp. "Imma just leave these here and go see what we've got in the kitchen. I figure you haven't been here in awhile and we're gonna have to order some groceries. I can take care of that."

"You have fun with that. You know where the computer is. I'm going to bed."

"Sounds like a plan, Stan." Dean snapped off a mock salute and left the room, leaving his brother alone. Roman changed into shorts and considered tying his hair up, then decided it would make the headache worse than he'd be able to tolerate. He sat on the bed to take the meds and slid under the covers. He was out within moments.

 

*RR*RR*RR*RR*RR*

 

Dean knew exactly when his brother fell asleep, without even being on the same floor. When Roman was awake, he fought against the cough for as long as he possibly could, but as soon as he was asleep, his coughing picked up exponentially. He'd been coughing off and on for about ten minutes, so it followed that he was sleeping. Dean tiptoed up the stairs and poked his head around his brother's bedroom door. Sure enough, Roman was out like a light. Dean knew that the flight out had exhausted him further, on top of being sicker than Dean had ever seen him, and that accounted for most of the Big Dog's irritability. But he'd taken the magical cough medicine, the antibiotics, and the Tylenol. At this point, Dean could have set off a tactical nuke right next to the bed, and Roman wouldn't have heard it. He could probably throw a wild party in here right now and never wake his brother up. Not that he was going to, but he probably could.

He left the door ajar so he could hear Roman if his brother needed anything, and ambled down to the computer to order the groceries. Thank God for the internet. He didn't have to go wandering through a supermarket, just scroll through the different departments and click on whatever he wanted, give the machine his credit card number, and voila! Food would arrive on the doorstep the next morning, probably delivered by some pimply teenager just starting to grow a scraggly mustache. He grinned at the thought, closed the program, and moved to the Xbox console, arguably the only thing--and probably the _first_ thing--Roman had unpacked since buying this place. He could read or watch tv later. Right now, _Call of Duty_ was calling his name.


End file.
